


Since We've No Place To Go

by laschatzi



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Idk what happened, but he insisted to be written exactly like that, grumpy killian, he was very stubborn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:35:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21987511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laschatzi/pseuds/laschatzi
Summary: After a car accident in the middle of nowhere of rural Maine (where she really shouldn’t have ended up two days before Christmas), Emma Swan almost freezes to death, but is rescued by a three-legged dog named Smee and his grumpy master Killian Jones who can’t seem to get rid of her soon enough to have his self-chosen hermitage back. Alas, the weather outside is frightful, and the fire is so delightful…
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 51
Kudos: 163
Collections: CSSECRETSANTA2k19





	Since We've No Place To Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the-captains-ayebrows (EscapistFiction317704)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EscapistFiction317704/gifts).



A csss gift for @the-captains-ayebrows

  
  


“Emma, come on, there's no need for being dramatic.”

His condescending tone sets her off even more than anything else that has happened over the past two days – dealing with his snot-nosed parents, the stiff atmosphere in their pristine house, or finding out that he cheated on her with his secretary, cliché alert.

Furiously, Emma Swan slams the hood of her old yellow bug shut, thanking the fates that she had to stay back for work one day longer than Walsh while he already drove home to his rich mommy and daddy. That way, she has her own means of transportation now, even if it might not be too comfortable in the unforgiving Maine winter.

He has the audacity to try and grab her arm when she climbs into the driver's seat. “Emma, don't be ridic–”

“Fuck. _Off_.” she hisses and wriggles her arm free from his grip, and he knows better than to insist any further as she closes the door forcefully and starts the engine.

“You're gonna freeze to death out there!” he calls after her, and she thrusts her right fist in the air to give him the middle finger salute as she drives off.

She grasps the wheel so hard her knuckles turn white. Really, she should have followed her guts in the first place and refused to accompany him to his parents' home over the holidays; deep down, she knew already two months ago that thins thing wasn't ging to work out in the long run. But Walsh insisted, poked, and cajoled her into it... and also, as he remarked so insensitively, “You've nowhere else to go for the holidays.” Where was the lie?

Truth is, she _doesn't_ have a place to go, or _people_ to go to, for all that matters. But truth is also, being alone in her ugly little flat in Boston beats being in that snakepit of arrogant pricks any time, so that's exactly where she's heading, no matter how long it takes, how many toes she'll lose to frostbite, and how many gallons of caffeine she'll have to consume.

It was in the middle of twilight time when she left Portland, and now she's been driving through the dark for hours, a darkness eerily illuminated by the heavy snow that seems to be everywhere. Maybe at nine she stops for a fill of gas and shortly contemplates to ask the attendant to point her to a motel for the night, but then decides against it. She still feels fresh and full of adrenaline and wants to drive on through the night, wants to put as many miles as possible between her and what she left behind – another shitty relationship she never should have allowed to come that far, another illusion of a perfect life she would never have. But seriously, fuck this shit. Nobody needs that.

She throws a merely fleeting glance at the only partly green sign indicating that she is _leaving Storyb–_ whatever the rest of the little town's name reads is covered in snow. The flurry is getting thicker and thicker, and seriously, fuck winter in Maine. For a moment she considers turning around and driving back to _Storyb–_ , but the snow is heavy, and she can't really see the confines of the not-too large road, and she really doesn't want to risk slipping off the road and ending up with her car stuck in the roadside ditch.

Damn, she should have _flown_ to Portland, but money was a bit tight after having to replace the washing machine, and she sure as hell wasn't going to allow her boyfriend to buy her a ticket. _Ex_ -boyfriend. She huffs, asking herself whatever she saw in him, and she can't even remember. Great, another ruined Christmas in her long history of not-so-great Christmases... well, for someone who spent her childhood and half of her teenage years in the forster system, and the other half of her teenage years on the streets, it's really not a surprise that this doesn't even qualify as her worst Christmas ever. The thought makes her laugh almost hysterically, and for a second she's distracted. A shadow suddenly pops up on the road in front of the hood of her car, and she jerks the wheel violently to the right. The moment she feels the wheel thrum in her hands, she knows she's fucked, and one second later she loses control over the car.

For the blink of an eye she's afraid the car is going to overturn, but luckily, at least that doesn't happen; much to her luck, it doesn't end up in the roadside ditch either, and after a loud _clonk!_ the car comes to a halt in a weird angle at the very edge of the road. The engine dies a quiet death.

“ _Fuck!”_ she gasps and lets out her breath in a long huff as everything else goes silent.

“Okay,” she whispers to herself, to _reassure_ herself. Calmly, very carefully, she closes her fingers around the key, presses her left foot down on the clutch pedal and shifts into the first gear, her right foot on the brake, and slowly turns the key. The engine sputters a bit, then it starts. _Thank God._ Gently, she lets go of the brake and steps on the gas pedal, easing off the clutch. A shiver seems to run through the car, but otherwise, it doesn't move. More gas, until the engine starts to protest loudly... and it _still_ doesn't move.

“Shit,” Emma presses through clenched teeth and steps down harder, but that's a mistake. The old car makes a rattling sound, and the engine dies. “Shit, shit, _shit_.” She turns the key again, trying to will the engine to start, but it's useless.

She hits the wheel with her fist and a filthy curse and snatches her phone from the passenger seat. But the display shows no signal. Seriously, _fuck_ rural Maine. Fuck _everything_. With a groan, she leans her forehead against the wheel and tries to come up with a solution that does _not_ involve her leaving her car, wearing just an – at least padded – leather jacket and thin, albeit knee-high, leather boots over her jeans and sweater. But there _is_ no other solution – she can't stay here in the car without engine in the middle of the night and wait for who knows how many hours until someone drives by; for all she knows, it's perfectly possible that won't happen for days. She has to leave the car and try to find help – her best shot walking back in the direction of _Storyb–_ , whatever the fucking name is, and maybe she'll pass by a farmhouse or something like that earlier and doesn't have to go all the way back.

Every fiber of her being, every instinct protests against leaving the relative safety and warmth of the car – but she knows staying inside is not an option, as that warmth is already fading with the engine shut off, she can already feel it. With a deep sigh, she grabs her beanie, gloves, and scarf from the passenger seat and bundles up as good as she can, shoves her useless phone in the backpocket of her jeans, and opens the door to climb out of the car.

The cold is not as bad as she expected, it doesn't feel biting, it's more... _soft_ , for the lack of a better word. And the snow doesn't blow in her face, it falls calmly – but _steadily_ – and covers everything, seems to muffle even the sound of her own breathing. Then she starts walking. It seems surprisingly easy, and she gains ground faster than she thought. _At least something._

Five minutes later, she can barely feel her feet anymore, and the snowflakes melting on her face do leave a bit of a sting. A slight worry starts to creep up in Emma's mind, but then she sees something from the corner of her eyes, maybe a few hundred yards away... _lights_. There must be a house, and she _knows_ it might be risky to bang at unknown people's doors in the middle of the night, but she also knows that she's never going to make it back to _Storyb–_ by foot in this weather, so she definitely has to try her luck with these potential axe murderers. She pulls out her phone and uses the flashlight to look for a path leading towards the lights, but she doesn't really see anything; if there is a path or driveway, it's all covered and hidden underneath the snow. She's going to have to make her way cutting across country.

With a deep breath, she hunches her shoulders to brace herself a little more against the cold, and turns to the left, making her way towards the lights. Her third step goes right into the void of a small pit hidden underneath the snow. She gasps in shock and waves her arms around as she stumbles, a sharp pain shooting through her left ankle, and for a moment it looks like she can manage to steady herself... but her numb feet are too clumsy; then she's falling, a dull thud echoes through her head, and everything fades to black.

***

“Bloody hell, Smee, you scurvy beast, come here!”

A distant yelp is the only answer, and he groans in frustration.

“Should've let you rot in that trap,” he growls and trudges through the snow in the direction of the sound. Whatever might that bloody useless dog be up to now? He was supposed to just do his deed before retiring for the night, but the moment he let him out, the stubborn animal darted away in the direction of the road, as fast as the snow and his three-legged clumsiness would allow. Except for a dull reflection of the moonlight on the snow it's pitch dark, and Killian Jones switches his flashlight on and calls again for his dog.

After a few yards he quickens his step – as much as it's possible with all the snow – because an uneasy feeling is prickling at the nape of his neck. As stubborn as his dog is, tonight he seems particularly insistent on not following his master's voice, and that's not typical.

“Smee? Where are you, m'boy?” The annoyance in his tone is replaced by concern.

The dog replies with another howl, more urgent this time. He doesn't sound like he's in pain, but he very obviously wants his master to hurry. Something must be wrong. Killian has almost reached the edge of the road now, and there's still no sign of the dog, but he can see the animal's weirdly shaped track in the snow. Three steps later, it becomes clear why Smee has been hidden from his sight: the dog is crouching in the snow-filled roadside ditch beside an almost completely snow-covered heap that must be the remnants of some big dead animal.

“What did you find? Smee, what's that?”

The dog whimpers and nudges his plump muzzle against the heap, brushing the snow away. What looks like the blood of a fresh roadkill at first, on second look turns out to be red leather, and after narrowing his eyes to see better in the blazing light cone, Killian realizes that he's looking at the body of an unconscious woman lying in the ditch, almost completely covered by snow.

“Oh, bloody buggering hell!”

He jumps into the ditch and drops to his knees beside the motionless figure. Smee jumps to his three feet and wags his tail, firmly whimpering. A quick scan tells Killian that the woman is breathing, and there's no blood or any injury to be seen save for a bruise on her forehead. But her lips have a faint blueish tint, and when he pulls off his glove and touches her cheek, her skin is ice cold; who knows how long she's been lying here already – long enough to be covered with a soft, deadly sheet of snow.

Killian doesn't waste any time pondering over what happened to her or how she ended up here, his priority is to get her out of the unforgiving cold. He takes his flashlight between his teeth, pulls on his glove again and pulls the unconscious woman into a sitting position. Smee jumps out of the ditch and barks encouragingly.

“Aye, good boy, Smee, good boy. Oh, _fuck_.”

He's lean, but strong enough, yet lifting an unconscious body from the floor and rise to one's feet and climb out of a ditch is no easy task, even for someone who's used to hard physical work. But eventually, he manages, and once he's secured the body over his shoulder, groaning under the weight, he walks across the snowy meadow towards the lone farmhouse, with his dog hopping excitedly around him.

Finally inside the house, he crosses the large living room with the mighty fireplace in the middle and the large bed in one corner. He lets the body glide from his shoulder and deposits her on the bed in a sitting position, pulling down the zipper of her red leather jacket that's almost frozen stiff and ridiculously inadequate for winter. He makes equally quick work of her soaked boots and socks, scarf, beanie and gloves, before he lets her drop on her back and drops to his knees to examine her feet. The skin is pale and ice cold, but it doesn't look like there's frostbite yet. He also checks her hands, ears and the tip of her nose, and when he doesn't find any signs of frostbite there either, he starts to quickly remove her damp clothes, places her in the middle of the bed and heaps every available blanket on her body. Then he puts on a kettle with water and quickly gets rid of his own boots and jacket.

When the water is ready, he fills all of his three hot water bottles and places them under the blankets against her feet, on her thighs and her stomach, folding her hands above it.

Smee whimpers and makes a move to jump on the bed, apparently feeling responsible for his find, but Killian calls him out in a sharp voice.

“ _Hey!_ Nice try.” He shakes his head and clicks his tongue at the dog's disappointed yelp. “You know bloody well the bed's off limits.” He scratches behind the flappy dog ears. “Come on, let's heat up some soup. Come _on_.” He slaps on his thigh, and the dog follows with one last reproachful whimper. “Stop complaining, you've already caused enough trouble.”

Passing by the fireplace, he puts on an extra log, making the flames blaze, and hangs her wet clothes on a leather chair near the fire. He throws one last glance over his shoulder before heading for the kitchen. _Aye, trouble_. He can already feel it in his bones.

“ _Bloody hell,”_ he huffs.

In the kitchen, he sets a pot on the stove and takes a container with the remnants of the chicken broth he made the day before, as if he knew it would come in handy. Smee is watching him intently as Killian grumpily stirs the yellowish liquid.

“Just what I needed,” he murmurs. There's just one thing Killian Jones hates more than an interruption of his quiet routine: surprises. Like the one currently huddled in his bed under all of his blankets.

The dog tilts his head in an almost apologetic gesture. Just like his master, Smee has a habit of attracting trouble and misfortune like a magnet, which is of course what brought them together in the first place.

Killian Jones had been living in the old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere for a few years, content with the fact that he saw people only about twice a month, when he drove into the next town to buy the supplies he needed and to deliver his wooden work pieces. Nobody asked him questions, nobody knew or cared about his backstory, and he liked it like that. The one exception was his only friend David Nolan, the veterinarian, for whom he'd once made a sycamore medicine cabinet. He and his wife Mary Margaret were his only social contacts, and once they'd given up trying to lure him further out of his self-chosen shell, they shared a tentative friendship.

One day, when he roamed the woods around his farmhouse to find the perfect tree branch for a coat rack, he stumbled over the miserable figure of a shaggy dog, more dead than alive and even to weak to whimper, its left hind leg stuck in a leghold trap. Even if it seemed useless, he struggled to free the poor dying creature from the vicious device which earned him a feeble tail wag – and rusty iron claws plunging into the flesh of his left palm, crushing the metacarpal bones.

Surprisingly enough, when he arrived in town, the dog was still breathing, and he left him in Dave's capable hands. In the hospital, his own wounds were tended to, but the rusty iron and the bacteria of the dog's rotting flesh had already done their infective work, and even though the doctors did their best, they couldn't save his hand. So he became a one-handed carpenter. _Why not._ It fit with the bloody luck he'd had so far in his life.

Ten days later, when he left the hospital, he passed by the vet's office to see if the stray dog had made it. The shaggy animal had to be one tough bastard, however, because not only was he alive, he literally jumped to his feet – his _three_ feet – when he saw him and wagged his tail tentatively, as if he recognized the human who saved his life.

“Nobody looking for him?” Killian asked, and David Nolan shook his head.

“No dog tag either, even if he must have belonged to someone once.” He showed him a dirty red leather collar with faded black letters inside that looked like written with a sharpie, forming the word _Smee_.

“I'll take him,” Killian said curtly.

David frowned. “Do you really think that's a good idea?”

“What happened, wasn't his fault.” He held up his stump that was still bandaged. “If _we_ don't match, I don't know who does,” he replied dryly and motioned to the dog's rear with the mutilated left leg. “Besides,” he went on, “who's gonna want him?”

David looked from the dog to his friend. “How are you holding up?”

Killian shrugged. “I've been much worse.”

David knew it was a lie, but he kept his mouth shut when he saw how Killian looked at the dog.

“Smee, eh?” The dog wagged his tail again, more fervently this time. Killian slapped his thigh in a beckoning gesture. “Come on, let's go home.”

When he drove off in his old jeep, Mary Margaret Nolan joined her husband at the window and sighed compassionately.

“Do you really think that's a good idea?” she asked.

David nodded thoughtfully. “I think it's a very good idea.”

That was three years ago, and from that very day, Smee never left Killian's side, obviously determined to repay the favor with undying loyalty and fierce affection. Nobody ever came looking for him, and nobody ever found out where he'd come from. Perhaps, David Nolan thought sometimes, he was just meant to be at the right place at the right time.

With infallible instinct, he found every injured animal in the range of a few miles, and dragged them home. Tonight, it seems, his instinct struck again.

When the soup is ready, Killian turns the stove low and returns to the living room to look after Smee's newest find. Much to his relief, the figure of the woman is stirring under the heap of blankets, and when he takes a closer look at her, he sees the color of her face has changed; the worrisome paleness of her cheeks has turned into a more healthier tone, and her blueish lips are rosier now.

He sighs and fetches a few clothes for her to put on when she wakes up, which will undoubtedly happen soon. _Oh, the fun_. He sighs again.

***

Slowly, very slowly Emma drifts back into a sort of semi-onsciousness, and the first thing she notices is a tickling pain in her feet... but that's gotta be a good thing, because the last thing she remembers is the thump on her head, and that she couldn't feel her feet anymore. But now she _can_ feel them, even if they're hurting and stinging, and also her hands, and she can even ball them into fists, and she's engulfed by warmth and softness and a soothing, pleasant smell. It gives her the urge to bury herself deeper into the nest she's in and just go back to sleep.

But her instinct scrapes at her consciousness, demanding of her to wake up and check out her surroundings and situation. She stirs and struggles to open her eyes, and it's surprisingly difficult. The blood is rushing in her ears, and then she clearly hears a voice through the haze swirling around her. The voice is low and accented and somehow fits well with the warm and cozy feeling.

“Lass? Are you awake?”

But it's a stranger's voice, a man's no less, and she has no idea what's happening to her. Her survival instinct kicks in, and with great willpower and effort she opens her eyes, blinking rapidly to clear her sight. She notices that she's inside a room and that she's lying on her back stuffed under what seems a lot of blankets that seemed cozy just a moment ago, but now seem to suffocate and threaten her. She struggles to sit up, and there's the voice again.

“Whoa, careful,” he warns, “you got a bruise on your head.”

That would explain the dull throb and maybe she dizziness, and she struggles even more. She has to see the owner of this voice and somehow make sure she isn't in danger. She notices with dread that underneath the indefinite number of blankets she's wearing only her underwear. A hint of panic brushes over her spine, and she's careful to hold the blankets in place around her body as she finally manages to sit up and fix her eyes on the man standing only a few feet away from the bed she's been placed in.

He's wearing normal clothes, she notices. A plaid shirt over a grey henley, well-worn jeans. Dark hair, a little too long, a tuft of it falling over his forehead. It almost touches his thick eyebrows that are currently raised above very blue eyes scrutinizing her closely. A slight stubble is peppering his jaw and cheeks, shimmering reddish in the dim light of the room. He doesn't _look_ dangerous, and absurdly enough, her instincts tell her that he _isn't_ , but she could be terribly wrong, and she's alone with him, in a bed, stripped down to her freaking _underwear_.

“What happened?” she demands to know. “Where am I? Who the _fuck_ are you?”

He shakes his head slowly. “I have no bloody idea of what happened, lass. Smee found you in the roadside ditch, passed out and already half covered in snow, and insisted we take you in.”

“Smee?” she echoes and looks around suspiciously, a fresh hint of panic making her toes curl. “Is there someone else?”

“Smee's a dog,” the stranger replies calmly, patiently. “You're at my house, thirty miles outside Storybrooke, Maine, and my name is Killian Jones. I'm living alone.” He tilts his head in what appears to be slight mockery. ”Anything else I can be of service with?”

“Did you take off my clothes?” she snaps.

“Of course I did, they were bloody _frozen_ ,” he explains pointedly, a slight annoyance creeping into his voice now. “Did you miss the part where I said you were half covered in snow?” He nods his head sharply in her direction and adds, “ _You_ were bloody frozen.”

Emma huffs. “Oh, right, and to warm me up you had to put me in _your_ bed, with–”

He holds up a hand. “Listen, darling,” he cuts her off, clearly angry now, “this is no bloody Hallmark movie. I put you in my bed, _the one close to the fireplace_ , with three hot water bottles to warm you up as fast as possible, because hypothermia is fucking _dangerous!_ ” He motions his hand vaguely to the side. “I hung up your damn clothes at the firesite, and they're still _damp_ , if you don't believe me.” A quick look confirms that her jeans, shirt, and jacket are indeed draped over the armrests and back of a huge leather chair standing close to a cozily burning fire in an open firesite. “But let me tell you,” he continues, “you're pretty rude for someone whose life I just saved.” He gives an annoyed flick of his wrist in her direction. “What were you even doing out there, in these clothes no less?”

She's momentarily disarmed by his little tirade, and she knows she should probably apologize, but her head is still dizzy, and she blinks rapidly to clear her mind and tries to recall what happened that made her end up in the roadside ditch where her life-saver apparently found her.

“My car... must have driven over a small rock or something,” she murmurs and touches the bruise on her forehead absentmindedly, flinching a little. “I think I had a flat tire.”

His eyebrows rise high. “So you decided walking was a good idea?”

“Better than waiting in an old car to be frozen to death!” she replies defiantly.

He tilts his head. “You do have a point.”

She draws a deep breath. “Do you have a phone?” she asks firmly.

He nods his head once, slowly, but Emma has a feeling that it's not a good sign. “Yes.” For a moment, she's relieved until he adds, “But the landline's dead. Happens when the snowing gets heavy.” He gestures in the direction of the firesite where there's a table with an old-fashioned looking phone and suggests pointedly, “Check for yourself if you don't believe me.”

Her instinct tells her he's not lying; and so far, her instinct has never failed her. She ignores his remark and raises her chin. “Mobile?”

“I have one, but it's never charged.” He tilts his head again. “No connection here.”

She lets her shoulders sag. “And what now?”

“I'm afraid you're not going anywhere tonight, lass,” he says and raises a hand in defense. “Believe me, I don't like this one tad better than you, but for tonight you'll have to stay here. Tomorrow we'll look for your car.”

She groans in frustration, feeling pretty deflated now. “Do you... do you maybe have something for me to put on?” she asks reluctantly, and he just motions wordlessly to the foot of the bed. Neatly folded, she finds what looks like a flannel shirt, faded grey sweat pants, and red socks with a christmas-y pattern. When she looks up agin, she sees he's retreating from the bed.

“I'm going to fix something to eat while you put that on.” He gestures across the room. “Bathroom's down the hall, fresh towels are in the closet.”

Emma combs her hair behind her ears with both hands and notices that they tremble a little when the shock of what happened settles in and she realizes that this grumpy stranger and his dog most probably saved her life. She shivers, and not from the temperature. Before she can say something, all she sees of him is a glimpse of his back as he closes the door to what's most probably the kitchen behind him, giving her the privacy to get dressed.

Reluctantly, because the bed is warm and cozy and smells good (and where did that thought even come from?), she folds back the blankets and puts the hot water bottles aside that were placed on her nearly strategically. She slips into the clothes provided for her and carefully gets up on her feet; like she expected, her legs are slightly wobbly. After a few tentative first steps, she shuffles through the large quaint room on socked feet, almost magnetically drawn to the cackling fire. When she brushes her fingertips over her jeans that are draped over the backrest of the huge leather chair, she can feel the dampness and shivers again. She would be frozen to death by now, two days before Christmas. Not that anybody would care or miss her, mind you.

After using the bathroom and splashing cool water into her face, the dizziness in her head seems to have lightened a bit. In the bathroom mirror, she examines her face and finds the bruise on her forehead is not as bad as she feared, which allows her to believe she probably doesn't have a concussion. _Fuck_ , she was really lucky.

When she opens the bathroom door, immediately the smell of chicken soup fills her nostrils, and suddenly she becomes aware of the roaring hunger in her stomach. The large wooden table near the fireplace is set with soup bowls, glasses, and a large, steaming pot. The door to the kitchen opens, and her savior appears with a bottle of water. A plump dog of middle size comes over to her, moving in a weird, clumsy way, and it takes Emma a few seconds to realize it's because he has only three legs: the left hind leg is missing. The dog bumps her leg eagerly with his shoulder and wags his tail.

“Smee, easy!” his master calls sternly and puts the bottle on the table, but Emma waves him off.

“No, it's okay.” She hunkers down and scratches him behind his flappy ears, obviously to the dog's delight. “Thank you, thank you so much!” she tells him in her _talking-to-a-good-boy_ voice, and he wags his tail so hard that his whole rear end shakes. She pats his thighs and looks at his missing leg. “What happened to you, Smee?” she asks. “Did you have an accident?”

“Aye, with a leghold trap,” his owner – _Jones?_ – replies, and Emma is shocked.

“With a _what?_ That's fucked up!”

“Must have been some old relic from twenty years ago.” His remarkable jawline tightens. “Was half dead when I found him.”

Smee seems to notice they're talking about him, because he looks to and fro between them eagerly. Emma pats him again and shakes her head with disgust. “Terrible. You could have been hurt as well!”

“Well, about that...” He tilts his head and lifts his left hand – except, she realizes with dismay, there's no hand where his forearm ends; his wrist – or what must be left of it – is hidden under a soft cover made of cotton or some similar fabric. His grim expression looks almost challenging, as if he expects her to react repulsed. As if that's a reaction he's used to, and that thought makes her unexpectedly sad.

“Oh fuck, that sucks,” she blurts out.

He's startled. “What, losing a hand?”

“Doing something good and being screwed over.”

“Well.” He shrugs and scrutinizes her for a moment, a curious look in his eyes now, and scratches behind his ear in what seems to be a nervous gesture.

Emma turns her attention to the friendly dog again and palpates a little along his spine and hips. “He could use a little massage,” she says, “his muscles are a little tense.”

He huffs. “What are you, a vet?”

She raises her chin. “Actually, yes.” She is, even if she hasn't felt like a true veterinarian in some time, as she's been tending mostly to rich brats' handbag dogs in the posh Boston veterinary practice she's working.

“Oh.” He runs his hand through his hair and says a little stiffly, “My apologies. Don't worry, though. I'll have you know Smee's special needs are regularly taken care of.”

“I'm sure they are.”

He motions to the table in an inviting gesture. “Come on, the soup will warm you up from inside.”

She sits down gratefully, and he fills her bowl with soup, pushing it towards her and sits down opposite her. Smee finds his place under the table between their feet.

“Thank you...?” she says and raises her eyebrows in question, having forgotten the name he told her.

“Killian,” he helps out, “Killian Jones.”

“Thank you, Killian. I'm Emma, Emma Swan.” He just nods to that, and she adds, “And I'm sorry for my reaction. It was just a shock to wake up to...” She lets her voice trail off, not really knowing what to say, and makes an all-encompassing move.

“You were right to be wary,” he replies to her surprise. “For all you know, I could be an axe murderer.”

She huffs a little laugh. “You know, I guess I'm just not used to people... being nice.”

He tilts his head. “That's because they're not.”

“Well, _you_ are nice,” she remarks.

“Oh no,” he contradicts dryly, “I'm not nice.” There's not much humor in his voice, and the self-deprecation she senses touches a string inside her, urging her to convince her grumpy savior that he is, indeed, a good person for what he did.

“Come on! You saved my life?”

He waves her off. “That's not being nice. That's... basic humanity.”

Emma shrugs and picks up her spoon; she has enough of burden to carry on her own, she can't cast away everyone's shadows. “If you say so...”

Quickly, he changes the subject. “What were you even doing in this neck of the woods?” he asks, “you're not from here, right?”

“I came from Portland,” she explains vaguely and dives into her chicken soup. “I was on my way back to Boston.”

He raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “You're from _Boston_ and don't know how to dress appropriately for this weather?”

“I'm not _from_ Boston, I just live there at the moment,” she points out in a defensive tone, “and I–I left Portland in a hurry.”

He tilts his head. “And ended up in this godforsaken nowhere.” Emma snorts, and he frowns. “What?”

“You realize you're talking about your home?” she deadpans.

He looks intently into his soup bowl. “This is not my home. I just live here,” he replies, and Emma is startled that he chose almost the exact same words as she did. “It's as good a place as any, and I've nowhere else to go,” he adds.

She feels like punched in the gut by those words, because that – _I have nowhere else to go_ – has been her own rough-and-ready replacement for a home during her whole life, and to hear the exact same from this total stranger under these absurd circumstances just makes it feel so weirdly... _predestined_ that he was the one to save her life.

Emma stares at him, but if he feels something similar, he doesn't show it. After a few moments, he looks up at her blankly and then motions to her soup bowl. “Anything wrong with that?”

She swallows and shakes her head. “No, it's very good. Thanks.” Then she lowers her head and eats her soup without another word, and it starts to warm her up inside more than she'd ever have expected.

Killian watches her while she's meticulously emptying her bowl, that stranger the snow storm literally swept in front of his feet. When he looked up and found her eyes resting on him after him saying he'd nowhere else to go, he recognized an odd sort of understanding in her features, like she knew exactly what he was talking about. Now, she seems to avoid looking at him, and honestly, he's grateful for that.

It's absurd that he feels that sort of instant connection to that complete stranger, and it's not useful at all, because they will go separate ways again tomorrow anyway. Plus, so far it's never done any good for people if he had any connection to them; all of those who he was really close with, are dead: his mother, his brother, his first love. That's also why he keeps David Nolan and Mary Margaret always at arm's length, even though he considers them friends – he seems just no good to be with, and he knows he's really not worth the trouble. No, it's convenient that the stranger he rescued – _Emma Swan_ , he recalls – seems to be similarly closed off and doesn't push any further.

Briefly, he shakes his head to clear the cobwebs from his mind and then finishes his soup quickly – he isn't hungry anyway – before he gets up to clear the table when Emma's bowl is empty, too. She looks at him questioningly.

“It's late,” he says and heads for the kitchen balancing the two empty bowls atop the pot, and she gets to her feet as well.

“Of course,” she replies. “Can I help? Where can I–”

“I suggest you go back to bed,” he interrupts and motions his head over his shoulder, “I'll sleep on the couch. For one night it'll do.”

“But I can take the couch!” she protests. “I wouldn't want to–”

“It's fine,” he cuts her off curtly and turns towards the kitchen again, “you need the extra warmth.”

When he has deposited the dishes and comes back to the living room, she's standing in front of the fireplace, and the light makes her face look like it's glowing. Smee is standing close to her, his tail slightly wagging. Killian frowns without noticing. With his sweatpants, worn plaid shirt, and the Christmas socks Mary Margaret knitted for him last winter, she looks incredibly cozy – and like she belongs exactly there, next to his dog, in front of his fireplace, and the thought startles and annoys him. He clears his throat, and she whirls around.

“I don't think you had a concussion,” he says, “but the bruise might still give you a bit of a headache. I have aspirin in the bathroom cupboard, if you need it.”

“Okay.” She nods. “Thank you again.”

He waves her off. “Try to get some sleep, you'll want to be well-rested tomorrow. You've still got a long way to go to Boston.”

She frowns. “Boston?” Then she huffs and takes a step towards the bed, the dog trotting after her. “Oh yeah, right. Okay. Then... good night, I guess.”

“Good night.” He clicks his tongue at the dog. “Smee, you know the rules. Not on the bed,” he warns.

His eyes follow her as she shuffles over to his bed and crawls under the covers again, and he quickly looks away when, again, the inexplicable feelings creeps up on him that she belongs _exactly_ there, because why the bloody hell would he think that?

Suddenly it seems like he isn't in control of his feelings, of the situation anymore, and if Killian Jones _hates_ something fervently, then it's the feeling of being under external control. It's ridiculous, of course – just a fleeting hint of connection, attraction maybe, and it will be gone tomorrow. _She_ will be gone tomorrow, not more than a faint memory of blonde locks, green eyes, and a soft voice.

Abruptly, he turns around and heads for the bathroom to brush his teeth and get into his sleeping clothes. He has a feeling that his sleep will be a little troubled tonight, and he's right.

When Emma wakes up the next morning, her host is already dressed, and the smell of coffee wafts through the entire room. She sits up and notices that he's nowhere to be seen, but she can hear him rummage about in the kitchen, obviously preparing breakfast.

Absurdly enough, she's had a deeper and more relaxing sleep than in a long time, which probably explains her odd reluctance to leave the bed; the feeling is disturbing.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she murmurs to herself and swings her legs out of bed. Passing by the leather chair, she picks up her clothes that are dry by now and heads for the bathroom to get dressed. When she returns to the living room, the breakfast table's set with coffee, bread, butter, honey, and scrambled eggs with bacon. Her stomach reacts with a loud growl.

“Good morning,” Killian greets her, “Slept well?”

She nods with a tentative smile. “Yes, thank you.”

“I hope Smee didn't bother you?”

“Not at all.”

“Fine. Then,” – he motions invitingly to the table, and she notices that he's wearing a prosthesis in the place of his missing hand – “you should get some breakfast into you before going on the road again.”

She doesn't understand the absurd hint of disappointment she's feeling at the thought of continuing her trip to Boston and never seeing Killian Jones and his dog again. When she steals a glance at him now, in broad daylight, she realizes that he's actually really handsome, in a very down-to-earth way, and she wonders how his smile would look.

 _What's wrong with you,_ she calls herself to order, _who cares how his smile looks, for fuck's sake. Eat your eggs, and then you're out of here._

Killian, too, doesn't seem very eager to extend her stay longer than necessary. The breakfast is a short, silent thing, and when they're done, they get dressed, and she bundles up as much as she can, before they finally head out.

This time, they're not going across the uneven meadow, they use the driveway from the farmhouse to the road. It's stopped snowing, but the snow is quite high – much to Smee's obvious delight.

“Bloody hell, this doesn't look good,” he murmurs when they reach the road. “So, in which direction is your car?”

“That way. I was heading back to the town when I saw the lights from your house.”

“It's thirty miles to Storybrooke!”

Emma rolls her eyes. “As I said, it was my best shot. Freezing to death in a car didn't seem appealing either.”

He nods somewhat grumpily. “Alright, point taken.”

They turn in the direction Emma has pointed, and the farther they walk, the darker Killian's mood seems to get, and he keeps murmuring and huffing and grumbling to himself. When they reach Emma's car after maybe seven minutes of walking, she's shocked to see that it's well-covered in snow; a _lot_ of snow.

“Bloody buggering _hell_ ,” Killian blurts out, “I _knew_ it!”

“You knew what?”

“ _This!”_ He gestures angrily towards the little, half-buried car, and then towards the road. “Even if we could get it fixed – and to do that we'd have to practically shovel it free – there's no way you could drive on _that_ road.”

“But it's stopped snowing, won't the snow plow truck pass soon?”

He snorts. “This is not a highway. It might take days before it's cleared.”

Emma closes her eyes. _Fuck rural Maine_ indeed. Then the meaning of his words seeps in. Before she can say anything, his angry voice cuts through the white silence.

“Grab your stuff already!” He gestures vaguely around. “I'm not going to get frostbite here.”

“My... stuff?” she echoes.

“Your clothes,” he replies impatiently. “I do have enough sweatpants and shirts to clothe you, but you might want a change of underwear during the next few days, until the bloody road is cleared.”

“Do you mean–”

“I _mean_ ,” he interrupts pointedly, “you're going to have to stay at my house for the next days. Unless of course,” he sways his arm out in the direction of where the town is, “you want to try your luck again and hike to Storybrooke.” He tilts his head in a sarcastic shrug. “At least it's not dark, you could even get there alive.”

“Very funny,” she shoots back and opens the trunk of her bug with some effort and snatches her duffel bag.

“ _That_ is all?” he asks doubtfully.

“Yes, that's all,” Emma replies, anger bubbling up in her about his constant rudeness. Okay, to drive through heavy snow in an old Volkswagen bug without winter tires might not be a really smart idea, but she barely had any choice, and the weather wasn't her fault. “I don't need much stuff. Or do I strike you as the princessly type?”

Wordlessly, he turns around and proceeds to trudge back to the farmhouse, with Smee delightedly hopping through the deep snow on his three sturdy legs, and Emma following as fast as she can, trying to process what's going on – and what to feel about it. So, apparently she's stranded here for the next few days, in the middle of this snowy nowhere, with a gruff, handsome stranger she's instantly felt an odd connection to. Well, it's not like she has anything better to do or anywhere else to go – or _anyone_.

When they get back to the house again and are inside, Killian tries the phone right away, but apparently, the landline is still dead.

“Bloody hell,” he curses under his breath and then turns to her. “No connection. Looks like you're stuck here.” He scratches behind his ear. “I do have a pickup, but you've seen the road.”

“I'm sorry I'm ruining your Christmas,” Emma says tentatively, but she can't shake off the feeling that he wasn't in a very festive mood anyway even before she showed up.

“Christmas?” He frowns and shakes his head once. “I don't care about Christmas.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” she murmurs. Meanwhile, she hasn't failed to notice that not only there is no tree in his living room or anywhere visible, there is no other piece of decoration either, no holly, no candy cane, no nothing. Emma herself isn't very much of a Christmas person either, but even she puts up the occasional candle or holly.

At first it seems like he wants to say something, but then he turns around and heads for the door again. “I'm going to work.”

“Work? Where?”

“In my workshop in the barn. I'm a carpenter.” He tilts his head. “And before you ask, yes, that's possible with one hand. It takes a bit of creativity, but it's possible.”

“I wasn't going to ask,” Emma replies indignantly.

He leaves the house without any further word.

She spends the day wandering around the house, resting in the afternoon, and reading in front of the fireplace, after she found a shelf full of books in one corner of the huge living room. She also checks the phone from time to time, but never gets a signal. Killian comes back only around noon for a small lunch of bread and cheese and waves her off when she asks if she can do anything around the house or prepare something for dinner (honestly, she's relieved when he tells her that he has already a stew in the fridge ready to be heated, because cooking isn't one of her prominent skills). He disappears after a rather short break, and it's almost like he's avoiding her presence. Not that she can blame him – she's basically an intruder into his routine, and even if he apparently doesn't do Christmas, she's still a stranger in his house and in his life. Absurdly enough, she can't help but feel a bit disappointed that he doesn't ask her if she wants to take a look at his workshop; she hoped to find out a little more about the man who saved her life, but apparently he's even more of a recluse than she is.

When the sunlight outside is fading, he comes back again and heads right to the bathroom for a shower, not before making sure she's okay though, with no headache, dizziness, or further signs of a concussion, and with no signs of a cold either.

“Landline still dead?” he asks when he puts the pot with the stew on the table; she has set it this time with plates and glasses, spoons and bread.

“Yeah, I've tried a few times.”

“Hmm... someone's going to be worried about you.”

She huffs. “No one, trust me.”

He throws her a sideways glance, but doesn't reply to that, and she decides to try her luck and simply asks, “You're not from here, right?”

Killian shakes his head. “No, I was born in England.” He pauses, but she's looking at him expectantly, and so he goes on, “My mother died when I was very young, fourteen, and my father already wasn't in the picture anymore.” Briefly, a sadness flickers over his face, like a long-healed wound that still throbs from time to time. She studies his expression intently as he continues. “I had an older brother, Liam. He was already of age, and luckily, the authorities let me stay with him. He trained as a carpenter and worked very hard to build his own business, and then I trained with him. One day, he had a fatal accident with the disk saw.” Emma's eyes widen, but she stays quiet. “He died. I sold everything and left the country. I just couldn't...” He falls silent, and a muscle in his jaw ticks.

She nods. “It didn't feel like home anymore.”

He gives her an odd glance. Even though he doesn't reply, she knows instinctively she's right, and it startles her once more how connected she feels to him.

“I came here for a fresh start,” he continues his tale, “settled down in Portland, met a woman. She was married to a rich and powerful man. We were planning to run away together, but she never showed up.”

“She changed her mind?” Emma asks sympathetically, but he shakes his head.

“She was hit by a car,” he tells her, and she gasps. “On Christmas Eve,” he adds soberly.

“Fuck.”

“Aye.” He tilts his head and drops his spoon into his empty plate with a dissonant clang. “You'll understand why I'm not overly fond of Christmas.”

She tries to process everything he just told her, the tragic summary of his life in five sentences, and she understands what's behind his pain – it's not only about the losses he experienced, but that he blames them on himself. She knows he does, even if he hasn't explicitly said so. Just as she, as a child, knew it had to be her fault, every time a foster family sent her away again. Just as she, a teenager in a juvenile detention home, _knew_ it was her fault what happened to her child.

“Yes, of course,” she says hastily, “I'm sorry I–”

“It's not your fault,” he cuts her off and pushes back his chair.

She understands the clear signal that the conversation is over, and she doesn't blame him for not wanting to elaborate any further on his misery... and yet, she feels a strange longing, something she hasn't felt in a long time. The longing for a person to share one's burden with, a person who won't judge you, because they'll understand. She feels that longing, because she has caught a glimpse of that person in Killian Jones. But it's obvious that he's not up for that.

She helps him clear the table, and then asks if he has a spare room for her to sleep in, so that he can sleep in his own bed again, but he shakes his head.

“It's not worth the trouble of preparing it and heating it up properly for another day or two,” he tells her, “and I don't mind the couch. Unless, of course, you mind.”

“No, no,” she replies quickly, “I don't.”

“Fine.” He nods. “Then, you'll excuse me for not keeping you company, but I have some paperwork to do. Comes with the business.”

“Of course. I won't disturb you.”

He spends the evening at the huge wooden table, buried in papers and sipping his tea, not saying another word to her, and Emma settles on the couch with a book and Smee at her side, but she can't really concentrate on what she's reading and keeps glancing over at him. The tuft of his too-long hair falls over his forehead again, hiding his eyes from her view, and the glow of the fire makes auburn highlights dance in it. For the life of her Emma doesn't understand why she feels the strong pull to go over to him and comb her fingers through it. It's absurd. She doesn't know this man. Except, she has the feeling that she does.

He really doesn't know why he blurted out his whole miserable backstory to this blonde intruder into his boring, conveniently numbing routine. Killian Jones normally doesn't share personal things from his past if he doesn't have to – not even David Nolan knows every detail about his personal history, and he's probably the person who knows him best. Then why did he feel the push to open up to his involuntary guest? Apparently, the instant connection he felt towards her isn't as fleeting as he thought, that feeling of mutual understanding – as if she knows exactly who he is, and he knows who she is – it's still there. Which is odd, since he doesn't really know much about her save snippets here and there – that she doesn't really have a place she calls home at the moment, that she's a veterinarian, and that she apparently is a loner. Very much like him. He doesn't understand it, and it makes him uneasy. It reminds him of the long forgotten desire to have someone who he could be himself with. Except, it's useless because this woman is someone who will disappear from his life as suddenly as she's stumbled into it.

He buries his nose in his paperwork, but it's a useless endeavor tonight. He feels her presence almost physically, the occasional looks she gives him when she looks up from her book, and they make him nervous. They make him question his self-chosen aloneness in an uncomfortable way he's not ready to deal with.

After two hours, he gives up and closes his books, shoves his papers aside and finishes the last of his now cold tea. As if on cue, she clears the couch for him and moves over to the bed, telling him quietly good-night to which he responds with a hesitant murmur.

Again, it's a night of restless sleep interrupted by periods of lying awake and listening to the even breathing coming from his own bed – and trying to ignore the dreadful feeling that soon enough this somehow soothing sound will be gone again, replaced by the silence he's been used to for years and which suddenly seems so little appealing now. So, he really hopes that _soon enough_ is close, so he won't have a chance to get too used to the feeling of not being alone – and enjoying it. And being crushed when it inevitably ends.

The next morning, Emma is woken up early again by the smell of coffee and bacon – contrary to her, her reluctant host seems to be an early riser. _See, we've got really not much in common,_ she tells herself as she shuffles into the bathroom.

When she comes back fifteen minutes later, Killian is just putting the plates with the scrambled eggs and the bacon on the table and nods a curt good morning.

“Landline's still dead,” he informs her grumpily, and Emma wants to slap her forehead that she hasn't even thought of checking that first thing when she got up.

“Oh,” she replies, not knowing what else to say.

“Well, I suppose we'll survive another bit.”

For a while, they eat in silence, then she asks, “Can I do something more today? Do you have anything special planned for dinner?”

He raises an eyebrow. “There's some leftover stew from yesterday?”

 _Right_. He doesn't care about Christmas, so no special dinner plans for Christmas Eve. If she's honest with herself, she's the same. Her Christmases usually consist of Chinese takeout or frozen pizza, bad mood, and _Die Hard_. She just thought that this year, maybe, could be a little different for both of them, given the weird circumstances they have been thrown into. Something like making the best of an unexpected situation, maybe making it even better than it normally would have been. But apparently, he isn't interested in anything like that, so she's going to roll with that.

“Sure,” she replies hastily, “that's fine. I just thought... nevermind. I just wanted to do something to make up for...” she motions vaguely around, an all-encompassing move mainly apologizing for her presence, “messing up your life.”

“I told you already, it's fine.” He gets up from the table. “If I could leave the dishes for you? I have some work to finish that's due soon.” He gestures towards the door.

“Yeah, of course. Go to your work, I've got this.” She pushes back her chair. “Anything to get ready for lunch?”

“Just some bread and cheese.”

He fills a thermosflask with the rest of his breakfast tea and pulls on a heavy sweater before he calls out for Smee, but the dog just woofs and flops down in front of the fire. Killian huffs and leaves the house for his carpentry.

The day goes by just like the one before, Emma watches the fire and puts on more logs when it grows smaller, and checks the phone from time to time. What irritates her is the odd relief she feels every time it becomes clear that the landline is _not_ working yet, because _why even??_ She should be looking forward to finally getting away from here. But she pushes these thoughts aside. For noon, she sets the table with bread and cheese and makes some fresh tea. The sight of the ready table seems to make Killian even more grumpy, though, and she's gettong more and more annoyed by his monosyllabic behavior. Really, what's wrong with this man? He keeps telling her that he doesn't care about Christmas and that she's not really disturbing him, yet he acts like she's the most inconvenient nuisance ever, even though she's trying her best to make things pleasant for him. How she ever could think there was a connection between them, is beyond her. He's nothing but a misanthropic hermit who probably already regrets saving her life. _Ass_.

When Killian comes back for lunch and finds everything ready, even the tea made just how he likes it and the bread freshly toasted, he's almost offended. And it gets worse: when he comes back in the evening, the table is set for dinner, she even found a nice tablecloth and a candle somewhere, and the stew is already heating up on the oven. He doesn't need – and doesn't _want_ – these frills. He can take care of himself, has done so for all of his life and will have to do so again once she'll be gone, and he has no interest in being cared for now. Has no interest in getting used to the uncomfortably pleasant feeling of someone... just _being there_ when he comes home.

Even Smee is obviously falling for that feeling, refusing today to go to the barn with him, as he does every day. The stupid dog preferred the company of their guest. Well, he's going to be disappointed soon enough. It's a cruel jest of fate showing them how things _could_ be if he weren't such a... _failure_ of a human being. Especially at this time of the year when the memory of his last great failure comes back hitting him with all might.

It's been eight years now since that fatal accident that took Milah from him – eight years in which the pain of losing her has dulled and faded, but the feeling of guilt, of being nothing but a failure, has remained.

The dinner is spent in an almost oppressive silence, and he ignores – to the point of being rude – Emma's attempts to start a conversation. At some point, she presses her lips together and pushes away her plate, wordlessly getting up from her chair and starting to clear the table. He lets her do it without helping this time, and when the table is cleared completely, he gets up and fetches his bottle of rum and a glass from the cupboard beside the table.

By the time she has finished rummaging and clattering in the kitchen, he's already on his third rum, staring with contempt at the thin black leather glove covering his prosthesis. Another proof of him being a royal failure. She leaves the kitchen, and he hopes that she'll retire to the couch with a book again, like the day before, and leave him be, but of course he has no such luck.

“You think you're the only one who has lost something?” she snarls, and when he looks up at her wearily, he's surprised about her aggressive stance – feet firmly planted on the floor, hands at her hips, and chin raised as she motions her head to his prosthesis.

His eyes follow her movement to his fake hand. “Oh, the hand is only the last thing in a long, boring row,” he tells her. He's in no mood for defending himself for feeling like horseshit, he's entitled to wallow in a litle self-pity, isn't he? “After my mother, my brother, and the woman I loved,” he adds and asks provokingly, “What have _you_ lost?”

She shrugs. “Everything,” is her simple answer. “My parents, when I was a few hours old and they dumped me on the stairs of a hospital. Three failed adoptions.” That gets her his full and prompt attention. “My first boyfriend at seventeen, when he betrayed me,” she goes on, “and I went to jail for a deed he'd done.” He clenches his jaw unconsciously, a wave of anger at the cowardly son of a bitch washing over him that ruined a young girl's life that already had been getting the short end of the straw since she'd been born. No wonder she has no one in her life who cares for her – probably she's used to not letting anyone come closer, and why would she? Everyone has fucked her over so far. But her tale isn't over. “In jail I found out I was pregnant,” she continues, and a cold hand grips his heart, “Lost the baby, too.” She shrugs and adds soberly, “Was probably better for the both of us.”

He studies her face in shock during the following pause, and he sees the faint pain that's still there... looking very similar to what he feels when he thinks of Milah. Because of course she'd blame herself for losing the baby. He wants to say something, anything, to assure her that no, it isn't her fault, but the right words won't come to him.

“Whenever I have something, a job, friends, a scrap of happiness, I lose it.” She huffs. “I don't even know why I'm telling you all of this, I haven't spoken to anyone about all this crap.”

Killian gets up wordlessly, turns to the cupboard and fetches a tumbler, then he pours a respectable amount of liquor into the glass and puts it on the table, motioning for her to sit.

She sits.

“I haven't told anyone the story of my miserable past either,” he says, “but you.” He tilts his head. “And Smee. But I highly doubt he counts.” The dog, still relaxing in front of the fire, wags his tail when he hears his name.

Emma huffs again, a little laugh this time. “You're better than me. I don't even have a pet to open up to.”

For a moment, their eyes lock, and he feels their connection stronger than ever, then he swallows and raises his glass. “To sharing shitty backstories.”

She clinks her glass to his. “To failures.”

“You're not a failure,” he contradicts, “You've just been screwed over by life. None of it was your fault.”

She takes a sip of her drink and coughs a bit. “Maybe not,” she finally replies, “but I haven't done anything to improve.”

“Horseshit,” he growls. “You have made something of yourself, you've built a life.”

She snorts. “I have no roots and no place where I belong.”

“But that can change.”

Her eyes fix on him with a disturbing intensity. “How?”

He tilts his head, avoiding her gaze. “You can belong anywhere, you just have to decide you want to.”

"You're the one to talk,” she replies pointedly, “hiding out here from the world, behind your fake hand and your anger!”

Killian is taken aback at her words, because... he isn't _hiding_ , is he? He's doing the world a favor by keeping it at arm's length. “The world doesn't like me.”

Emma shakes her head. “No, it's _you_ ,” she tells him and points her index finger at him. “You don't like the world, and you don't like yourself.”

He looks at her with wide eyes, frozen, at an actual loss for words. “There's really not much to like,” he finally says after a long pause and is shocked to see her smile, and understanding sadness hidden somewhere between the laugh lines around her eyes.

“Why are you so stubborn?” she asks softly.

***

Emma wakes up with the strange feeling of her neck being a little stiff, but the rest of her feeling extremely cozy and at home. She stirs and realizes that she's not in the bed she slept in for the last two nights, and she blinks her eyes open with some effort.

She's looking directly at the fireplace which means she's on the leather couch, and when she turns her head to the right she sees she's snuggled up to Killian Jones's side, her head on his chest, and his arm around her. His head has sunk on the backrest, and he's still asleep. A blanket is draped over her and across his lap.

There's a moment of panic as she tries to recall what happened that brought them here, and she thinks it must have happened some time between her tale of how she went on shoplifting sprees with Neal, her first boyfriend, before he let her go to jail for him, and his tale of how his brother Liam was distracted for a second by telling him to be more careful with the wood plane, and thus ended up hurting himself so badly in the disk saw that he bled to death. They moved from the dining table to the leather couch, leaving the rum behind, and Killian put another log on the fire to banish the cold and dark with warmth and light.

They talked and listened, carefully approaching each other, exploring limits, lowering defenses, and examining scars. Emma isn't sure how it happened or what it was that made them open up to each other, and she doesn't remember when they cuddled so close together that she ended up falling asleep in Killian's arm, but she does know she feels more free and safe and _lighter_ than she has in years. Like she has shared a burden that's been weighing her down, and now it feels only half as heavy.

She manoeuvers herself in a sitting position so that she can have a better look at Killian's handsome sleeping features, for once relaxed, but her movement wakes him from his sleep and he's apparently startled by the position they're in, but can't move away any farther, being already in the corner of the couch.

She smiles. “Hi.”

“Good morning,” he replies in an almost questioning voice and looks nervously at his arm, the left one with the prosthesis attached to it, that's still resting on her back. “I... I apologize if I...” He falls silent, not really knowing what to say, and she shakes her head.

“I'm glad we talked,” she says firmly. “I feel so... relieved.”

He shifts himself into a more upright position and lifts his hand very carefully, tentatively, as if she might shy away from it; she doesn't. “So do I,” he admits in a rough voice and smooths a strand of hair from her face.

Emma studies his features, his look so serious and sober, but also full of warmth and questions and _hope_ , and she throws all caution to the wind and moves closer to him, approaching his face with hers, and he mirrors her gesture. After one last glance at his slightly parted lips she closes her eyes.

A shrill ring, deafeningly cutting into their fragile, tender silence, makes them jump apart.

For a second, they look at each other and around the room, confused and shocked, and then a shadow falls over Killian's face as the telephone rings again.

“The landline,” he says and jumps up from the couch, making Emma feel almost physically hurt at the loss of contact, the loss of warmth.

“Hello,” he answers the phone in a voice bare of any emotion, not showing disappointment, annoyance, or any feeling at all. “Oh, Dave. No, I'm fine, thank you for checking. Yeah, I've noticed. Really? That's a relief. Thank you. Okay, in a few days. Goodbye.”

He hangs up and looks at her with the same empty expression she just heard in his voice. “That was a friend from Storybrooke. The snow plow truck just left town and is clearing the road outside right now. I suggest,” he picks up the phone again, “I call the Storybrooke garage and tell them to send out their towing vehicle as soon as the road is passable again. They should be here in two hours at the latest.”

Emma feels like punched in the guts. Numbly, she rises from the couch.

“Sure,” she replies tonelessly.

The next hour passes by in a haze. Emma hears him on the phone, obviously talking to a mechanic, explaining the situation and telling the man to knock at the door once he's got the vehicle, so he can pick up her, too. She busies herself getting dressed and packing up her stuff while Killian fixes them breakfast. Smee is alternating between following her and Killian, whining reproachfully.

It takes barely ninety minutes until there's a heavy knock at the door.

Killian opens, and she's already prepared, dressed in her boots and red leather jacket, like when he found her, her duffel bag slung over her shoulder. He looks at her as the mechanic is waiting outside, and she draws a deep breath and steps nearer.

She's searching his gaze, waiting for him to say something, anything. He averts his eyes and reaches into the pocket of his jeans, then he hands her something on his open palm.

She looks at him questioningly, and he tilts his head in a barely perceptible, encouraging nod. She reaches for the thing in his hand, an object about the size and form of a kiwi fruit, and when her fingertips brush his palm, sparks shoot right up to her elbow. It's cool and smooth, made of wood, and she recognizes the features of a slightly stumpy, three-legged dog.

“Smee?” she whispers, tears stinging in the corners of her eyes. “Did you... did you make it for me?”

He swallows, and a muscle in his jaw ticks. “I thought you'd like to have a souvenir of your savior.”

The man waiting outside clears his throat. “Ma'am?”

Emma huffs a laugh. “Thank you. For everything.” Then she raises on her tiptoes and leans a little forward to brush a kiss on Killian's scruffy cheek, his stubble prickling her lips. “Merry Christmas, Killian.”

Then she leaves the house and walks away. When she turns around to look back, she finds the door already closed, and all she can think is that she never even got to see his smile.

“Oh, shut up, Smee,” Killian growls as the dog whines and scratches at the door. “This is what was going to happen, all the time. This is how it's supposed to be. It's better this way.”

The dog whines again, and Killian scoffs at him, turning away from the door and proceeding to make all signs of the presence of another person disappear. He clears the breakfast table and folds the blanket they've slept under, involuntarily recalling how it felt to wake up with her in his arms, snuggled against his side, her head resting on his chest. The intimacy of sharing a blanket, the warmth their bodies created, and most of all the emotional intimacy of sharing their pain and anger, both having lots of it locked away in them.

It felt... _right_. Like how it was supposed to be.

The looks they shared, open and raw and understanding, knowing. _Longing_. The tender touch of his fingertips on the silky strand of her hair, even though his skin is roughened from working with wood everyday, he could feel the smoothness through and through, like a promise. The almost shy expression in her captivating green eyes, turning to something vulnerable and courageous when she swayed closer, her lips full and soft and waiting for his.

And yet, it was _not_ supposed to be. She had her life and her job in Boston, even if she didn't feel at home there. She was going to leave anyway.

He's glad it happened today, _before_ they kissed and he could fall even more for her – because _aye_ , he realizes now, absurd as it sounds, that's exactly what has happened in these mere two days and three nights spent in her company, as much as he's tried to avoid it. It's true: he started to fall for Emma Swan, to fall _in love_ with her. So it's good that she left now, before he was in way too deep, so deep that losing her again could devastate him. Like ripping off a band aid.

An hour later, the bloody phone rings again, and he contemplates for a moment not answering; he's really not in the mood for people, and the only people who really matter (and care about him) know he's alive and well. But then he thinks it could always be David again, and he doesn't want to snub the only friend he has, so he picks up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Killian? It's Emma.”

That hits him unexpectedly, and for a moment his tongue is tied, and her voice reaches him again through the landline. “Killian?”

He clears his throat. “I'm here.”

“Ah. Okay. I... I just wanted to let you know that I've arrived in Storybrooke. Turns out my spare tire is damaged, so a new tire has to be ordered.” She pauses for a moment, before she goes on, “Looks like I'll be around for another few days. I'm staying at the bed and breakfast here.”

“Granny's,” he says automatically, trying to process her words.

“Yes,” she replies. “I thought you... we...” She starts to stumble over her own words, and he closes her eyes. _Don't say it_ , he thinks, _just don't_. “I tought if you came to town the next few days, we could have dinner together or something. I... I'd like to thank you properly for, you know, saving my life.”

“I... well, that's not...” He licks his lips and starts again. “You know, that's really not necessary.”

“I know, but...” He hears her draw a deep breath, and it sounds shaky. “Anyway, if you come to town, just drop me a call, okay?”

“If I come to town, I will, Swan,” he replies reluctanty, fully well knowing he's going to avoid Storybrooke for at least ten more days.

***

The next four weeks come and go in a haze, and it's surprisingly easy to fall back into his old, boring routine. He crafts his works, he drives to town to sell them, he buys his groceries and other supplies he needs, and he retires to his hermitage.

Then, in the first week of February the time has come for Smee to get his annual shots, so he takes him to his friend's office. Just when he's about to enter the house where David Nolan sees his patients downstairs and lives upstairs with his wife Mary Margaret, the door is opened and David almost bumps into him on his way out, obviously in a hurry.

“Killian! Good to see you again!” he exclaims, then frowns. “Something wrong with Smee?”

“No, he's fine, he just needs his shots.” The dog confirms his good health with a friendly woof.

“Ah, damn, I'm heading out to an emergency,” David says, gesturing to his pick up parked in front of the house, not after giving his favorite patient a hearty pat.

“Oh...” Killian scratches behind his ear. “Okay, no problem, I'll come back tomorrow, and–”

“No, no,” David cuts him off and gestures towards the house as he's opening the driver's door and throws his veterinary kit inside, “just go inside, he'll be taken care of.” He starts the engine and calls out of the window, “wait for me, we'll have a beer later!”

Killian is startled as he watches hin friend speed off, but then he shrugs and enters the house as David has told him. The waiting room is empty, and he calls tentatively, “Hello?”

“Come in!” comes the answer from a bright, female voice, and the voice hits him like lightning, right in the guts and in the heart, and Smee's ears perk up and he lets out an excited bark.

Then the door to the treatment room is opened, and they find themselves face to face with the person Killian has never expected to see again. She's wearing white scrubs, a messy ponytail, and she's never looked more beautiful.

“Swan?” he gasps. Her eyes widen in only mild surprise, and she smiles, and it's his downfall. “How... I mean, why... are you here?”

Smee doesn't care about these vain details, he's all over her in the blink of an eye, and she crouches down so he doesn't have to jump up on her on his one hind leg, and greets him properly. Then she rises to her full height again.

She shrugs, a girlish gesture that makes her look incredibly young. “David had a job to offer, and I needed a change of scenery.”

“Oh.”

 _A change of scenery?_ What does that mean? It sounds like a fleeting thing. He doesn't know what to say.

Emma licks her lips and draws a deep breath. “Killian... I–I was waiting for you, to show up for that thank you dinner.” She fixes her eyes on him. “Why did you never call?”

“Oh, well, you know...” He runs his hand through his hair and averts his eyes, shame filling him at the sound of hurt in her voice. “I thought you would be leaving soon anyway, and I didn't want to... I was afraid I...” he shakes his head helplessly and looks at her again, hoping she understands from his eyes what his words cannot express. And she does.

“I'm here now,” she says simply, her gaze holding his, and nods in affirmation.

“What about your life in Boston?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “I never really liked what I had there,” she tries to explain. “But I like it here. I might even grow some roots.”

“Here, in the middle of nowhere?” he scoffs.

She tilts her head to the side, an almost playful gesture. “You know, someone told me, I can do that anywhere I want to. And,” she points her index finger at him, “that someone also told me, here's as good a place as any, _and_...” She shrugs again. “I've nowhere else to go.”

He just looks at her like an idiot and nods, really and completely at a loss for words now, even more like an idiot. He's grasping for words in his mind, or even a coherent thought would be nice, but he can't find either, not before he's managed to wrap his mind around the meaning of what she just told him.

So, like an idiot, he gestures towards the dog. “Smee needs his shots.”

Emma buries her hands in the pockets of her scrubs. “Then let's get it over with.”

Between them, no more words are spoken, Emma gets to business with the dog, Smee taking his shots stoically as always, because what are a few pricks when you've had your leg bitten off by rusty iron jaws, right?

When she's done, she gives the dog a few treats and looks at Killian again, somehow expectantly, and he knows, he just _knows_ it's his turn now to say something useful.

He clears his throat. “Then I suppose I... see you around?”

She nods with a smile, but she can't fool him – he notices the slight disappointment in her voice, and he hates himself for it. “Sure,” she replies lightly.

Emma's hands are buried in the pockets of her scrubs again as she watches Killian from the window driving away in his pickup. She supposes he just needs a bit more time to really understand what she told him, that she's not planning to leave again so soon. But anyway, even if he doesn't realize it anytime soon – as crazy as it sounds, she can already feel the first roots sprout into the ground.

It did seem like fate had its hands in it: the delivery of her new tire being delayed for days and days, her stumbling over the friendliest woman she ever met while buying some hygiene products, that woman turning out to be the wife of the local veterinarian who told her her husband was suffocating with work but couldn't find anyone wanting to help him out.

And then, completely out of the blue, Walsh showing up one day, wanting to make amends and becoming nasty when she just shook her head.

“You're ridiculous, Emma,” he spat. “What do you want here, in the middle of nowhere? Your best shot is with me. You don't belong here, you don't belong with anyone.”

“I like it here,” she just replied calmly and rose to her full height, because he really wasn't worth the adrenaline. “And to be honest, anywhere is better than with you.” And she turned around and let him stand there, at the curb where he belonged.

She knew eventually she'd run into Killian, and she was nervous about it, asking herself if the time in between might have made him close off again. To be honest, even now, after meeting him, she isn't sure.

Two days later, to her surprise, he's standing in the waiting room again.

“Killian! Is something wrong with Smee?” she asks, eyes scanning the dog, but he seems to be his normal, carefree self, greeting her with a bump of his wet nose and appropriate tail wagging. “Did he react badly to his shots?”

Killian frowns. “What? Oh.” He shakes his head. “No, no. Smee is fine.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Then what... what can I do for you?”

He draws a deep breath and scratches behind his ear before he looks her directly in the eyes, determination in his gaze. “I'm here to... to ask you out,” he finally says in a rough voice. “To dinner or something.”

Time seems to be frozen for a moment as she lets the meaning of his words sink in. Then she exhales carefully. “Shouldn't I be the one taking you out?” she asks and shrugs, trying to play it light. “I mean, I still owe you that thank you dinner, remember?”

But he shakes his head, not accepting the easy way out. Apparently, he needs to get something off his chest. “You don't owe me anything,” he contradicts. “ _I_ owe _you_ an apology. For being rude and.. and...” His voice trails off as he's searching for the right word.

“Afraid?” she offers.

He draws deep breath and tilts his head in a fatalistic nod. “Aye,” he admits. “You know, someone... fate, the gods...” he hesitates and then raises his hand to brush a strand of hair from her face that somehow escaped her ponytail, and the tender gesture makes her heart swell. “Someone sent me the best Christmas gift one could ever stumble across in a snowy roadside ditch,” he says softly, “and I was just too much of a coward to accept it.”

She huffs a little laugh and revels in the warmth spreading all through her veins. “And now?”

He tilts his head again. “If you can decide to grow roots, I can bloody well decide to stop being angry.”

Emma smiles and takes a step nearer, standing only a hand's breadth away from him now, and she can see the fine skin around his eyes crinkle. And she thinks, _yep, that's a smile. Finally_. Without further hesitation, because why the fuck, she raises on her tiptoes, and the moment she leans in she feels Killian's hand at the back of her neck, pulling her to him the last bit. She closes her eyes when she finally feels his lips on hers and sighs into the kiss. He wraps his other arm around her waist and molds her into him, deepening the kiss, and it's everything she's imagined since they were interrupted on Christmas morning – everything and _more_. When they reluctantly separate again because they both need some air, they lean their foreheads together, both smiling with sparkling eyes, and she thinks she'll probably never get enough of his smile.

“I like it when you're not angry,” she breathes.

“You know, if you want it, you have it,” he replies in a low voice, a little cryptically.

“I have what?” she asks and licks her lips.

“A place to go.”


End file.
